Hello, and I hope this update finds everyone well! I apologize for the delay- between work and a cold, I've been a bit tied up- so I hope this is at least worth the wait. I was amazed at all the support I got last chapter! It made me feel wonderful, and it meant so very much to me. Huge thank yous to Jeice Lover, abesgoldenfriend, unleashed111, L, Kara Black, SeekerAstria, and star's dreams for their reviews.

This chapter does have some triggering imagery scattered throughout - I can't say exactly where because it's a bit of a spoiler! It's not nearly as bad a previous chapters have been, though, I don't think. Plot is beginning to move forward in time with the anime now, so it's going to get a bit harder to write for a bit. I'll try not to let it slow me down! As always, please do read and review! I love hearing from each and every one of my readers!

Chapter 6: A Broken Mirror

Sid Barrett, resident zombie and teacher at the DWMA, had grown accustomed to long days and sleepless nights – he no longer needed to sleep, after all. This evening, however, with crime scene photographs spread out around him, several items put aside in evidence bags along the wall, and a sheaf of reports on his desk, he found himself missing the escape from work a nap would bring.

Then again, if he could sleep, he was fairly certain he would just have nightmares.

That was just the kind of man he used to be.

One clear plastic bag lay out the desk; in it was a blunted scalpel, so coated in dried blood it looked rusted. Fingerprints were practically embossed in the black. Stein's fingerprints – they were a ten-point match. On the floor, in another bag, was a bloodied leather belt sized to fit Stein, with those same fingerprints on it.

Under the bagged scalpel, a photograph of the bite wound on DeathScythe's upper thigh. A match to Stein's dental records.

Across from them, DNA profiles from semen samples taken at the scene. One was inconclusive, as they didn't have any of Stein's DNA on file. The other profile was Spirit's, which brought an entirely new level of unpleasantness to the case.

Sid groaned and let his head thunk against the wood of the desk.

"You sound cheerful." Mira Nygus looked at him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Any reason you're trying to beat your brains back in, or is this just a pity party?"

He groaned and pushed himself back up. "Nah, just tired. How're you doing?"

"As well as can be expected." She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and falling against it before venting her true feelings. "Which is to say, horrible. I hate all this secretive bullshit. I had to lie to Azusa's face today about why we pulled in a city doctor for DeathScythe last night – and you know how hard it is to lie to her, she's like a human lie detector! I don't even know how she found out about that!" She huffed a sigh. "You know Shinigami-sama isn't even telling the other deathscythes what really happened to him?"

Sid glanced at her. "Why would he? We're getting ready to fight Ashura soon. They're already pretty spooked; DeathScythe's stronger than any of them, and seeing him defeated isn't helping their morale. Do you really think now is a good time to tell them the truth?"

"I think Marie and Crona at least deserve to know that they're running after a rapist, yeah!" Nygus half-shouted, waving her arms in the air. "Spirit's broken, Sid! I've seen it with my own eyes! You didn't have to pick glass out of his feet or stitch up his back because his best friend used him as a message board, or watch a doctor do a rape exam on one of your schoolmates!" There was real concern in her voice, enough to make Sid push back away from his desk and turn towards her. "I don't want to be responsible for those two going out after that lunatic and coming back raped or broken or in a body bag!"

"You think I like it any better than you do?!" The zombie growled low in his chest. "Shinigami-sama tried to talk her out of it. So did Azusa. Hell, even I gave it a go. She wouldn't hear of it – you know she accused us of not caring about Stein's feelings in all of this?" He laughed at the stupefied look Nygus gave him. "Yeah, that was my reaction too. Look, Marie is a deathscythe; Crona has the demon sword and the black blood. And Marie isn't completely stupid, she knows Stein is dangerous!" He sighed heavily. "Shinigami-sama must have his reasons. Doubting him now-"

Nygus huffed. "She's going up against her Meister, Sid! Don't you get it?"

Sid looked away guiltily.

The medic sank down to sit on the floor, resting her head against the door. "You Meisters tend to forget about it all the time, but Weapons? We can't. 'A Weapon must be ready at all times to die for his Meister's sake. A Weapon is nearly useless without a Meister to wield him.' We're trained from the start to work with our Meister, to look out for them, to obey and sacrifice – have you ever heard of a Weapon turning on his Meister?"

Sid shook his head, looking at his Weapon partner with a mixture of regret and pity. "Marie should be all right – she and Stein weren't partnered for long," he ventured.

"Except she's head-over-heels in love with him," she retorted.

"There is that," he conceded. They fell silent for several long moments, surrounded by the evidence of pain, before Sid laughed again, a humorless grin spreading on his grey face.

"You know what, Mira? I hate this secretive bullshit too. That's not the kind of man I am."

The crescent moon was high in the night sky, endlessly drooling blood from its manic grin, when Spirit finally laid back in his loaned bed to try and sleep. He had tried to give it back to Shinigami, feeling incredibly awkward about kicking his Meister out of his own room, but the older being would have none of it. Kid and the Thompson sisters treated him like an honored guest – well, Kid and Liz did, anyway; Patty was her normal self up until bedtime, when she'd pressed a stuffed giraffe into his arms and dashed off. Apparently Mr. Giraffe was supposed to help him sleep.

Mr. Giraffe was doing a pretty lousy job of it.

Actually, Mr. Giraffe, with his looney grin and beady eyes, was stuffed under a chair where Spirit couldn't see him. (His initial reaction had been to throw the ugly thing as far away as he could, but he couldn't bring himself to do that and hurt Patty's feelings.) There was nothing that could entice him to sleeping – sleep brought nightmares, and he would do anything to avoid the dreams, the replaying memories. It was bad enough he had to suffer through them during the day, but there was no relief at night.

So he sat back and stared at the skies, the ceiling, anything, until his eyelids grew heavy and-

-the concrete was cold under his feet, bleak and grey; the walls and ceiling were made of the same, cracked and aged and bitterly cold. He went to clutch his pajamas around him and found himself clothed in tattered boxers stained with blood, multicolor bruises and filthy bandages around his torso and feet. Fluids stained his inner thighs, the corners of his lips; his hair was matted and tangled. "Where-" he began in fright, instinctively drawing his limbs inward for protection. His eyes darted around the room, desperate for something familiar.

A projector sat in the center of the room.

On the other side reclined a red Wolf, one eye of silver and one of gold; the two stared at each other for a moment before he looked away.

Hello again, his Fear said, tilting its muzzle curiously. I must admit, I wasn't expecting to see you back here so soon. Or at all.

Spirit shivered. "Wh- how the hell did I get here?"

It flicked an ear, staring at him with that same unblinking gaze. The fur around its golden eye had faded from a rich blue to a reddish-purple. Rather bleak, isn't it? Its voice was casual, as if commenting on the weather. I must admit, you fit the décor perfectly.

He flushed and turned away. "Stop staring at me like that," he snapped, wrapping his arms around himself.

I'm only looking at you the way you want me to, it said, crossing its paws one over the other.

"I don't want you to look at me at all!"

Now, now. You can lie to the Reaper; you can lie to your daughter. The Wolf's fangs lifted in an approximation of a smile. But you cannot lie to yourself, Spirit.

The man glanced back over his shoulder to stare at the Wolf. ". . . you're Fear, aren't you?" he asked, a note of worry in his voice. "Shinigami-sama said you were my Fear."

Well, I am making you afraid, am I not?

Spirit's faded blue eyes narrowed in anger. "If you're a part of me, then you should be doing what I want you to do. Like going away or shutting your eyes or getting me some damn clothes."

There was silence in the Room for a moment before an unearthly series of howling barks came from the Wolf; it was laughing at him. Just as you here are a reflection of what you think you are, I am a reflection of your secret heart, your true desires. Spirit looked down at himself, a frown creasing his brow. You see yourself as beaten, dirty, a creature most foul, and so you appear.

"I don't-"

And I stare at you and your weakness and shame because you want your colleagues to see it, the beast continued, steamrollering over his protests. You hate yourself. You want them to see how weak and disgusting you are, how low you've sunk, how easily you let yourself become a cocksucking whore.

The deathscythe flinched. He ducked his head low, humiliated, fingers digging into his arms. "Shut the hell up," he swore, his voice unsteady. "I didn't let-"

But don't you want to remember how easily he spread your legs?

The projector whirred into life between them. Spirit took a half-step back; the Wolf rose to its paws, towering over him. Remember how you thought you'd die when he entered you?

"I said shut-"

Remember how it tasted when he came in your mouth?

It stepped forward again, nose-to-nose with the trembling human.

Or how about you, hmm? The Wolf's voice dripped with an amused sort of revulsion. How you just laid there? Just let him have his way with you? Never made a move to stop him?

"I couldn't!" he screamed in the Wolf's face. "I tried to stop him and I couldn't! I never could-"

-a cutting pain, the scent of ether, a splash of crimson-

The Wolf's ears perked up even as the words caught in Spirit's throat and died off. Oh? Never could what?

"Nothing." His voice was flat, eyes flashing with a sudden anger.

Oh, I don't think that was nothing. The beast nodded back over its shoulder; where before the projector had been sitting by itself there was now a pile of moldering old cardboard boxes piled around it. The tape that kept the boxes closed was yellowed and cracking, easily broken. I think that was very much a something. Its fangs seemed to grow longer in hungry anticipation. Why don't we see what.

Scythe blades crossed in front of its snout. "Why don't we not and say we did?" the deathscythe shot back.

The Wolf tilted its head. Are you serious? Do you think you can intimidate me here, with those? Do you think you can stop me?

"You know, I'm getting really sick of you." Spirit pressed forward, the blades sinking into the creature's fur until they pressed flesh. Its fur began to ripple blue where his blades touched it. "I don't care what's in there. Anything you're interested in has got to be bad news, and I want no part of it, you got me?"

You don't even know what's in there, do you? Fake pity oozed from its voice. You don't remember.

"Shut up!" He stared his Fear in the eyes, almost snarling. "Just – fucking – stop it already! I am sick of you dragging me down! I have too many people depending on me to keep falling for your stupid mind games!"

You really think they're counting on you? A broken Weapon? It smirked at the furious look he shot him. You probably couldn't be used to trim an azalea bush, and you think you can help fight against something as strong as the Kishin?

"I have to," he breathed, his blades shaking in fury. "I have to do something to protect my daughter! To protect my Meister – it doesn't matter if I don't come back, there's a school full of children here that need people to protect them! If I can at least do something toward that-"

Of course. Because you protected yourself so well against Stein.

"Don't say that name-"

The Wolf pressed forward again, pushing the scythe blades apart. Come, now. Surely you're not afraid of a little name, are you – sempai?

His breath caught in his throat.

I can see it in your eyes. Sem~pai~. It terrifies you, doesn't it?

The blades snapped back into his body.

It does. How delicious. You used to take pride in being his senior. And now it's just a pet name for a pet whore.

He began to tremble as the beast licked its chops.

He called you that the whole time he was fucking you, didn't he? It set its jaw atop his shoulder, crooning in his ear. Sem~pai~, sem~pai~. Why are you shaking so, sem~pai~? Does it remind you of being underneath him? His hands touching you?

Spirit shoved the Wolf's muzzle away, stumbling back. His hands were fading, becoming translucent. "Stop-"

It leered at him, placing a heavy paw on his chest, claws dragging down to just above his pelvic bone. The claws seemed to sink through him, as though he were incorporeal. What happened while you were unconscious, sempai? Did he rut you like an animal again? Just think of how many times, how many ways he could have had that mouth or ass of yours. What kind of scars did he leave to mark you?

Its mismatched eyes bore into his faded blue ones; he felt himself fading away even as the Wolf spoke, its final words echoing in his heart long after he had slipped out of the dream.

What else did he do? Do you even know, sempai?

Do you even know?

"A remedial class? Really?"

The library at Gallows Manor had been temporarily transformed; chairs and desks were pushed to the sides, making a wide open area in the center of the room. Spirit, back in old jogging pants and a t-shirt (and a borrowed pair of plush panda slippers to cushion his battered feet), sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, sulking. Shinigami, in his human form, looked decidedly more elegant than usual in comparison, his suit and cravat all perfectly aligned. "I wouldn't call it a remedial class. It's something they do with the young NOT students to help them adjust to each other. I thought that, since we're having some issues, it might help to give it a try."

The deathscythe heaved a sigh. "Fine. But couldn't we have just used the Death Room or a training room at the Academy? Why here?"

"I can lock the doors here, for one." Shinigami leaned against a desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you might want some privacy, and technically, you're still supposed to be resting. I don't need Nygus jumping down my throat because I'm not keeping you bedridden."

"Point taken." He sat back, trying to look relaxed and failing miserably. "So . . . what kind of exercise is this, exactly?"

The Reaper grinned and whisked his way to an antique phonograph. "I'm glad you asked, Spirit. Do you have a music preference? I'm not very good with modern dancing, but I'm quite good with ballroom. And the tango."

Spirit stared at his Meister. "Our exercise. Is dancing."

"Yup."

"Together."

"Exactly."

"Dancing. Together."

". . . yes?"

". . . did someone put you up to this, or has the Madness finally gotten to you?"

Shinigami groaned and rolled his eyes. "It's a trust-building exercise, not a game!" The music began to play, an uptempo swing beat; the elder being held out his hand. "I know it's difficult for you to be in close proximity with anyone right now. I just thought this might help."

Spirit bit his lower lip for a moment. Embarrassment warred with guilt on his features before he took the proferred hand. "Fine." He shot the other a challenging look. "But if I have to do this, I get to lead."

"I had planned for you to." The taller man grinned, placing his free hand very lightly (and very high up) on Spirit's uninjured side. "Shall we?"

"That's my line!"

And so they began. DeathScythe was a fairly accomplished dancer himself, but his sore feet and his obvious discomfort at being touched (and at being isolated with another person) made him awkward. The box step was for beginners, but it was a simple rhythm, and one they fell into easily enough. "I still think this is ridiculous," the younger man grumbled under his breath after a few minutes of shuffling movement.

"If it was going to be too difficult for you to do," Shinigami replied as they turned, "you should have just said so. I forget you're not as proficient as I am."

"Whoa, hold up." Spirit scowled and signaled a switch in tempo, pushing the other backward into a quicker Viennese waltz. "You're the one who insisted I take dance lessons in the first place – so you wouldn't have to dance with emissaries when they came to Death City!" Back, step, step, turn; he was beginning to move more naturally instead of forcing himself to endure being touched by his Meister. "And I seem to remember a certain Queen being rather impressed by my skill, thank you very much!"

The Reaper smirked as he let himself be guided backward. "Qatar has a Sheikha, not a Queen. Though I suppose I'll admit she enjoyed herself. A little bit."

"Hah! Score one for the deathscythe!"

"Now, her husband was a whole other matter . . . ."

The deathscythe rolled his eyes as he transitioned them with the music into a smooth, slow foxtrot. "Oh God, he was that one, wasn't he? How many times did we apologize over that snafu? Twenty? Thirty?"

"Thirty-three times over a span of four and a half months, and you're still not allowed within twenty kilometers of the country's borders." Shinigami threw his head back and laughed, a warm, rich sound. After a moment Spirit joined in, resting his head on his Meister's shoulder and chuckling.

"I've caused you a hell of a lot of trouble, haven't I, Shinigami-sama?" he murmured once the laughter died down.

"You've kept things exciting," the older man chuckled. "Transform, Spirit."

The tone was light, but the command was undeniably there; instinct kicked in before DeathScythe could process what had been said. The hilt of the scythe fell neatly into Shinigami's gloved hands, a little too heavy and warm to be comfortable – but so much closer to normal than it had been that the Reaper couldn't help but give a happy little hum of excitement.

Spirit's voice wavered from inside the scythe. ". . . it's working."

"You sound surprised." Shinigami spun the Weapon between his fingers in a well-practiced movement, relishing the feel of the staff in his hands. The blade stopped just inches from the floor; he hefted the scythe back up to stare at it, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Did you really think we couldn't do it?"

"Well . . . ." The man's reflection looked away, uncomfortably naked before his Meister's gaze. "You know what they say. Hope in one hand . . . ."

He shook his head. "I never gave up hope in you, Spirit," he said plainly. "I knew you wouldn't let your fears defeat you."

Spirit flinched; the deathscythe dissolved back into his human form to stand before the other man. "Is something bothering you?" Shinigami asked.

". . . you said you had a doctor look me over the other night."

"Yes? What about it?"

The music had by now stopped; he shuffled over to a nearby table and sat atop it, his slippered feet swinging childishly. "What did he say?"

The other man tilted his head, golden eyes flickering. "You took a lot of damage in that fight, Spirit. It's a miracle you didn't develop peritonitis or a punctured lung."

"No, not – I mean, when I was unconscious . . . did – did he . . . I . . . ." Growling in frustration, he buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes.

Shinigami waited patiently, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

It took a few seconds for him to gather the courage to continue. "You told me there was . . . scarring." Spirit swallowed hard. His voice dropped, became hesitant and timid. "What . . . how much . . . what caused the . . . ?" He trailed off.

Shinigami's lips set into a grim line. "Spirit, have you not seen the scars?"

"I can't exactly see my own back without a couple of mirrors."

". . . I'm not talking about the ones on your back. Do you not look at yourself when you bathe? Your body, your . . . male regions?" Had the situation not been so serious, he would have blushed at the mentioning.

Spirit cowered down, shaking his head.

"Have you looked at yourself at all since . . . ?"

Another shake in the negative.

". . . you have bathed, haven't you?"

A pause, before Spirit flipped Shinigami the middle finger – a hopeful, if rather rude, sign. The older being sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to push away the headache trying to form. "Come on," he said gently. "I think you need to take a look."

"Did you pack a compass?"

"And a map, and an atlas. And a spare compass. Really, I won't get lost."

Nygus shrugged, frowning. Marie was still tidying the Patchwork Laboratory, gathering last-minute items to take with her on her journey. "Azusa said she'd be by in a few hours, by the way. She's had to take over for Shinigami-sama again."

"He's staying at the Manor again?" She shot the other Weapon a glance. "With Spirit?"

"Yup."

Marie made a little non-committal noise in the back of her throat. "Why are you really here, Nygus?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

"I know everyone thinks I'm crazy for going after Stein after what happened." The young blonde deathscythe turned to face her, arms folded across her chest.

". . . the thought's crossed my mind, yeah," she admitted.

The younger woman shrugged as if she had been expecting that answer. "Stein's always had issues with Madness. This has been so hard on him – Spirit and I both had been trying our best to keep it under control for his sake."

"Except your wavelength was skewed by that witch and her puppet."

Marie nodded with a scowl. "Except for Medusa and Crona, yes. But he's been fighting all his life against it, and no one seems to realize how hard that's had to be for him! Somewhere inside him, I know he's still fighting it, and I know he feels horrible about what he did to Spirit, but nobody's willing to go to bat for him!" She turned back to the bookshelf, pulling down a thin hardcover. "You'd think Spirit would be more understanding given that they were partners-"

Nygus bit her tongue hard enough to taste blood. "I think you're forgetting that Stein used to carve Spirit up in his sleep when they were partners, too," she said when she could manage to keep the anger out of her voice.

". . . yeah. I know. But Spirit forgave him that." She put the book back, chose another. "I don't know why he's holding a grudge this time. Or why Shinigami-sama is so angry. I wish I knew what was going on."

"I don't think anyone knows what Shinigami-sama's thinking," Nygus said. She pushed herself up from the couch and pulled a thin envelope out from a pants pocket. "Look, do me a favor, will you? When you two get out of the city limits, will you read this?"

"Well, sure," Marie said, surprised. She took the envelope and slid it between the pages of the book she held in her hands. "What's in it? Some big secret?"

". . . just promise me you'll wait until you're outside of the city limits before you read it." Though they were never close friends, Nygus gave the deathscythe a quick hug. "And please, be careful."

The scars on his back were not as bad as he had first feared.

Granted, they were still horrendous to look at – jagged, irregular letters spelling FEAR carved in raised and puckered scars into his upper back, lined in scabs and black stitches – but given time they would heal into something that wouldn't show through a sweatshirt. They would probably be fairly prominent in anything thinner than that, but as long as Spirit had some kind of option to hide them he would be all right. The last stroke on the R still tingled; Shinigami had traced a finger over it, a pain in his golden gaze Spirit had rarely ever seen before and never wanted to see again.

(At least it hadn't been pity. Sadness he could take; tears and hurt and fury; anything but pity.)

Now, fresh out of the shower, Shinigami standing on the other side of the bathroom door where he could listen and speak but not see, Spirit stood in front of the full-length mirror with a towel around his waist and truly looked at himself.

The bruises were yellowing; the marks around his wrists were almost faded, the ligature mark around his neck still an ugly line of purple and green fading to yellow. His too-prominent-to-be-healthy ribs were turning various vivid shades of green and yellow around the blue and purple (you fit the décor perfectly, the Wolf had said, and it had been right). Above his jutting hips he could see the fading dots that marked handprints, crescent scabs where fingernails had dug in and drawn blood. Healing scrapes marred his knees from kneeling in broken glass. Just under the edge of the towel, he could see the beginning of toothprints in a hellish violet-blue, high on the inside of his thigh.

"Spirit?" came the familiar voice from beyond the door, laced with concern. "Is everything okay?"

He took a deep breath. "Yeah," he said, and let the towel around his waist drop to the floor.

They dotted him in a vague zigzag pattern. Five perfect little burn circles clustered around the base of his genitals, marked atop yellowed, incisor-shaped bruises. Cigarette burns. Bite wounds. Three more circular burns along the shaft of his penis. Jagged cuts made by jagged fingernails all along there, between his thighs and God only knew where else-

-and he remembered parts of it, didn't he? Little snippets of it, broken bits on an old film reel, seen through a thick fog (it's waiting the Wolf is waiting it's watching it knows it knows)-

"Spirit?"

The deathscythe slammed the palms of his hands into his eyes, grinding them in until stars bloomed behind them, forcing the tears and the terror back.

"Spirit, are you all right?"

He stumbled backwards, the backs of his legs hitting the edge of a bench; he sat down hard, gracelessly curling up into a protective ball over his knees and trembling. They were there and so ugly, disfiguring, scars that would never fade away, an intimate reminder of what had happened and how and even if he was ever able to get over his own stupid fears he would never be able to face another partner again, not without showing them the proof of what he was now-

-and what made it all worse was he didn't even know-

"Why?!"

The door creaked open at the scream. Footsteps raced toward him. A fresh towel was tucked back around his waist; gentle hands placed something warm and dry and oh-so-familiar around his shoulders. "Shh. Easy now."

Spirit turned his head toward the voice; Shinigami knelt at his feet, tucking his jacket – his cloak, now, having let it morph back to its original state – around his Weapon partner to protect his modesty. He took the corner of it and made to wipe at his face, but was pushed away. "Spirit-"

"I trusted that son of a bitch! He was my friend! He was my Meister!" Spirit slammed a fist into the wall; the tile cracked with the force of the blow. "Why did he do this? Why me?! I didn't-"

He got to his feet, clutching the tattered old cloak around him, and stormed away, stopping in the middle of the room. "I tried to help him. I did. I thought I was . . . . What did I do wrong? Where did I screw up?"

Shinigami looked up at him, his features open in shock. "Spirit, where would you even get the idea-"

"You've seen them, haven't you? The scars?" The older man nodded. "Then you know. You know it wasn't just once. Once would have been enough, but no." Spirit began pacing, his fingers kneading the ethereal fabric of the Reaper's cloak. The thoughts tumbled from his lips almost faster than he could speak them; his voice grew hoarse with fury. "I can remember bits and pieces of it. He had to have another turn. Or two or three, hell, why not? It wasn't like I was stopping him!"

"Spirit, that's enough!"

The whipcrack of Shinigami's voice, harsh and commanding, stopped the redhead in his tracks. He looked down at his Meister, exhaustion underlining his hazy blue eyes, then turned his face away before the light could betray the dampness on his cheeks. "It's not enough!" he shouted back, his voice quivering. "S- s- Stein – he broke into my home, waited for me, a- and he-"

He hesitated, unable to voice the word. "He raped you," the elder said quietly. "And you couldn't stop him."

Spirit's legs gave out from under him; he collapsed into a heap of long limbs and tattered cloth on the slick tile floor. "You think I don't know that?!" he nearly shrieked. "I did everything you asked me to, I tried to be the Weapon partner he needed, I tried to help him control his Madness- why did he do it? Why?!" The tears came then; he was too tired to keep holding them back. "You've got to tell me, because I don't know!"

"Oh, Spirit," Shinigami breathed. The Reaper crossed the floor on hand and knee, sitting before him in the damp. He stripped off his gloves and cupped his Weapon's face in his bare hands, thumbs wiping the tears away as fast as they came. Spirit leaned into the touch, quiet sobs shaking his frame. "You have to ask the one question I don't have an answer for."

Marie hefted the pack up on her shoulder, looking back at Crona. "Don't dawdle. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

Crona could only nod, scurrying in the sand to catch up with her. Behind them, Death City was rapidly dwindling, becoming just a small dot in the distance.

In the bottom of Marie's pack, an envelope lay sealed inside a book, forgotten.